


Kisses are a far better fate than wisdom

by powerfulowl (StuckyFlangst)



Series: Sweet and Sad Stucky mouthfuls [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: But generally not a feature of the fic, First Kiss, Fist Fights, M/M, Mutual Pining, One instance of period typical homophobic language, POV Steve Rogers, Pining, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29254971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuckyFlangst/pseuds/powerfulowl
Summary: Steve draws valentines for money, though he doesn't get any of his own. He's in love with Bucky Barnes, and he draws him on cards for other people. But Bucky doesn't seem to want him that way.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Sweet and Sad Stucky mouthfuls [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076327
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32
Collections: Cupid's Stupids: A Stucky Valentine's Day 2021





	Kisses are a far better fate than wisdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainbow_nerds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbow_nerds/gifts).



> This is a response to a prompt for Cupid's Stupids: A Stucky Valentine's Day 2021 (CupidStupid2021) for [rainbow_nerds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbow_nerds/pseuds/rainbow_nerds)
> 
> The prompt was: Bucky cleans Steve up after a fight - first kiss/first time. I went for first kiss, which is a real change for me. I tend towards the smutty end of things. I tried to take inspiration from rainbow_nerds' own sweet stucky fics.
> 
> I actually did a tiny bit of research for this fic and decided that the exchange of valentines cards would have been around in the 1930s. The rest is my imagination.

Before the first time, there is an _almost_.

Steve is 16 and Bucky is 17. It’s Valentine’s Day and everyone’s handing out cards. Some store bought with pre-packaged sentiments printed on, but a lot more handmade on recycled card with scraps of fabric and handwritten declarations.

Nobody has given Steve a valentine, and he hasn’t given any out, but he’s turning a good trade doing sketches of flowers and cupids and faces. He’s got a little table set up inside the newsagent. Mr Murphy said it improves business because people who can’t afford a valentine can maybe afford some card and a picture from Steve. It’s too cold to set up outside, so Steve’s grateful.

So Steve draws the faces of girls he knows, boys he knows, draws Mrs Murphy with a posy. He draws a lot of pictures of Bucky. Girls know he’s friends with Bucky and he draws Bucky best. Bucky laughing, Bucky holding flowers, Bucky holding ice-creams at Coney Island. They’re all pictures from Steve’s memories, not the girls’, but they don’t care. After he’s drawn the picture they dismiss him – sickly little Steve Rogers, significant only because Bucky Barnes for some crazy reason likes him.

After a few hours Steve’s collected a good pile of pennies. His hand is aching from drawing, his back is aching from sitting bent over for so long, and there is an ache in his chest from seeing so many happy faces, making so many gifts and receiving none himself. He knows his ma will give him something, but it doesn’t soothe this particular ache that grows stronger as he gets older. He gathers up his pencils and his earnings into his satchel and slings it over his shoulder.

As he’s walking home he hears a cry from down an alley. _Are ya tryin to have a fight in every alley in Brooklyn?_ Bucky gripes at him often.

It sounds like a girl’s voice.

‘Marty, no, I don’t want to give you a kiss.’

Steve turns into the alley. There’s Marty Simons pushing Elsie Rosen up against the wall. He’s in Bucky’s year and is probably a head taller than Elsie. She’s wrapped in a thick coat and pushing into Marty’s chest with gloved hand.

‘Come on Elsie, I gave you a valentine, you can give me a kiss.’ He leans in, puckering his lips and leering.

‘Hey!’ Steve shouts. ‘She said no!’

Marty turns and scowls at him. ‘Fuck off, Rogers.’ He’s still trapping Elsie between his arms.

‘Not until you leave her alone,’ Steve glares at him with his hands on his hips.

Elsie glared at Marty, confidence apparently bolstered by Steve’s presence. She pushed her hands harder against his chest.

‘Use you knee, Elsie,’ Steve shouted. She grinned and slammed her knee into Marty’s crotch. Marty yelled out and his hands jumped protectively down. Elsie game him another kick in the shin, pushed him away and ran out of the alley with a smile and a ‘Thanks, Steve!’

Steve keeps standing there, watching Marty struggle upright. He’s spitting mad now, Steve can tell. Steve keeps standing there, glaring at him, putting himself in the way so Elsie can get clear.

Marty straightens, face red and teeth bared. He lumbers towards Steve. ‘Fuck you Rogers, always getting in the way. I just wanted a kiss.’

‘She didn’t want a kiss, Marty. Giving a valentine doesn’t buy you a kiss,’ Steve sneers at him. _Up_ at him, now he’s right in Steve’s space. He’s got even bigger, like everyone their age. Except Steve.

Steve takes up the defensive stance Bucky taught him at the gym. _It won’t save you but it’ll take longer to knock you over_. And jabs up at Marty’s jaw with a swift blow. Not hard, he knows, but it catches Marty by surprise and his head snaps up a little.

Then Marty’s swinging wildly and Steve manages to duck and jab a few times but he’s struggling to breath in the cold air and he’s no dancer – in the ring or in the dancehall. Marty’s fist hits him in the eye and he feels it swelling, sees blood across his vision. Then Marty lands a blow in his gut and Steve doubles over. A heavy blow snaps his jaw. He can feel his brain stuttering. Light and dark in front of his eyes.

Distantly he hears shouting, thumps. Steve’s staggering, stopping when he feels the stone against his back.

Then there’s an arm wrapping around his shoulders, gentle hands on him, a soft voice in his ears.

‘Fuckin hell Stevie, let’s get you home.’

Bucky. It’s Bucky. Steve leans into him. Everything hurts, but Bucky’s here.

Steve’s skin is hot and the air his cold. He still has his satchel across his chest. His money.

‘Betcha got lots of valentines, Buck,’ he murmurs.

‘Yeah Stevie,’ Bucky says. ‘Lots drawn by you, too. You musta made a coupla bucks at least.’

‘You’re the most popular boy in Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes.’

Bucky just laughs and pulls Steve close, supporting him.

Steve’s ma isn’t home yet. Bucky lets them in with his own key and leads Steve over to the table and sits him down. Unbuttons his jacket and helps him out of it. Presses a cold compress into Steve’s hand.

‘Hold that onto your face for a bit, then I’ll clean you up.’

Steve groans and puts his head back, holding the compress with a shaky arm. It’s cold.

The apartment is warm. Ma moved them into it because it has one of the heating systems where water circulates through the walls. It’s been good for Steve’s chest. Warm. Warm like Bucky’s wrapped around him. Bucky’s smile.

Bucky pulls up a chair next to him and puts a dish of water on the table. The water’s warm. Steve’s surprised. Bucky must have heated it on the stove, been pottering around for a while. He’s wringing out a muslin cloth and smoothing it over Steve’s face.

‘Fuck Stevie, he got you real good.’

Steve’s right eye is almost completely closed and his jaw feels stiff. His ma will check but he doesn’t think it’s broken. Bucky’s strokes over his face are so gentle. Steve shivers a little.

‘You still cold Steve?’ Bucky asks.

Steve opens his one good eye and smiles. At least his lip isn’t split this time.

‘Nah, that just fells nice is all.’ Steve normally would never say that. Never tell Bucky how much he likes his touch, his presence. Steve knows he’s prickly, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind.

Bucky smiles back softly. His lips are so soft and pink. His face – that Steve drew so many times today – looks beautiful up close. The strong line of his jaw emerging from the softness of adolescence. The cleft in his chin that Steve wants to press his finger into. The dark of the stubble that’s been appearing on his face. The way the fight loosened his pomaded hair and a stiff lock now hangs across his forehead, creased with concentration and care.

Bucky catches his eye and Steve stares back, sure his longing is written on his face. Wanting to force Bucky to see it. Acknowledge it.

Bucky’s breath catches and he lowers the cloth, returning it to the blood-pinkened water. Steve keeps looking at him, breath quickly in his narrow chest. He feels hyper-aware of his body, of his bones pressing against his skin, the blood moving through his arteries and veins, his weak heart fluttering against his ribcage.

And Bucky leans forward. He does lean in. Steve will think about it later, watch the moment on the backs of his eyelids. And Bucky does lean in, does flick his eyes down to Steve’s lips, does run his pink tongue along his own lips.

Then abruptly he pulls back. Grabs the bowl and picks it up, standing. He doesn’t look at Steve, turns back to the kitchen.

‘What do you want to do now?’ Bucky’s voice is trying to be light, normal, but Steve’s knows him well enough to hear the tightness in his throat.

So that’s how it is. Steve thinks.

‘I think I just want to rest by myself,’ Steve says curtly.

‘Steve, you know your ma said you shouldn’t be left along after you’ve been hit in the head.’ Bucky frowns at him from by the sink.

‘I’ll be fine Bucky,’ Steve waves his hand and expertly supresses a wince of pain.

‘Steve–’

‘Just go Bucky,’ Steve interrupts before he can say anything. ‘Go and read you valentines and go on your date with – whoever it is that you’re going on a date with. I’ll be fine. Ma will be home soon.’

Bucky opens his mouth again, but Steve just stares at him impassively. He knows Bucky has no defence against that. It’s not like when Steve is angry and glowering and Bucky can tease him and prod him into laughter.

Bucky knows. Knows how Steve feels. He wants to pretend things are just like they’ve always been and that will be fine tomorrow, next week, the rest of their lives.

But tonight Steve wants to be alone and nurse the pain in his chest that wasn’t left their by Marty Simons, that he knows now will just grow bigger, sharper.

Bucky won’t meet his eyes. Silently pulls on his own coat and scarf. Stands awkwardly by the door.

‘See you later?’ He’s nervous.

‘Sure, Bucky, see you later,’ Steve says, not unkindly.

Steve doesn’t cry, but he does sit quietly, staring at his hands, until his Ma comes home. They exchange valentines – Steve made her a real nice one with a colored sketch of a cottage in Ireland copied from a book of Mr Murphy’s, with some green lace Mrs Murphy gave him. The flowers around the cottage were mostly from his imagination. Inside was a poem he’d found in a book at the library by Yeats.

_O what to me my mother’s care,  
The house where I was safe and warm;  
The shadowy blossom of my hair  
Will hide us from the bitter storm._

His ma kisses him with tears bright in her eyes. She gave him a card made by one of her patients at the hospital. A beautiful watercolor of Brooklyn Bridge. Inside is a little message from her. _To my brave, fierce boy, Never give up being who you are, With love, Ma_.

Steve kisses her cheek and buries his head in her soft, strong shoulder.

And things go back to more or less normal between him and Bucky.

\-----

It’s 1938 and Steve and Bucky move in with one another. Their apartment is smaller and colder than the one Steve shared with his Ma. The apartment tower still has the piped hot water, but by the time it gets to them at the top it’s not so warm anymore. And sometimes the water freezes in the pipes altogether. Steve’s single bed doubles as a couch and Bucky has a rollout mattress behind a curtain.

Steve misses his ma fiercely. Sometimes he gets really quiet when songs she loved are playing on their rickety wireless. Bucky doesn’t try to talk to him. Sometimes brings him a tea made from the leaves Steve gets from the Irish grocer. Or wraps a blanket around his shoulders if the chill settles in.

And that’s the thing – Steve still loves him. But it’s not just that hot, tight love that sits in his belly and chest (though it’s that too). It’s something quieter now as well, born out of Steve’s grief, out of their domestic life. Bucky humming as he washes his face and neck with his shirt stripped off. Bucky reading his science fiction stories while Steve sketches at the table.

Bucky tries sometimes to get Steve to come out with him, go on a double date, but Steve always turns him down. Bucky doesn’t push anymore, thinking perhaps that Steve can’t handle the noise and the people.

In fact, Steve slips out now sometimes to go to a queer bar blocks back from the docks. There are usually sailors there, but lots of locals too. Steve makes a bit of money drawing blue pictures for people. Which is the excuse he will use if Bucky ever finds out. He’s sure Bucky won’t ask what else he’s been doing. Won’t want to know about messy handjobs or suckjobs in bathrooms and alleys.

A couple of times when he’s feeling particular brave he even dresses up in his best suit that he got when Bucky’s younger brother grew out of it and goes to the Hotel George and sits at the bar and draws. The men who go there are rich and Steve can make a fair bit of money by lowering his eyelashes and pressing his pencil to his lips.

But in February ’39 it’s cold. Steve’s glad he had that extra money squirreled away because he’s been sick a lot this winter. Still, for Valentine’s Day he agrees to set up at Mr Murphy’s again. He’s already made a few bucks drawing blue valentines for a bunch of fellas and a few women who go to Sand St on the regular.

He’s not surprised that there’s quite a few women who ask for pictures of Bucky. There’s the usual gaggle of teenagers. They seem so young to him, and he thinks back to Elsie and Marty. Elsie got married to some young man from Manhattan, while Marty’s working at the docks.

When Steve gets home Bucky’s getting ready to go out, looking sharp in his pants and braces, jacket slung over his arm. Steve thinks of the Leyendecker pictures, and thinks that Bucky could be a fashion model.

‘Wanna come out with me tonight, Steve. I bet there’s lotsa girls looking for someone tonight.’

Steve just shakes his head with a smile. ‘I’m sure they’re not looking for someone like me. You go out, Bucky, have a good time. Didja get any of the valentines I drew for ya today?’ Steve grins and pokes him in the shoulder. He can’t make himself give up their casual touches, even though those touches now hold the frisson of _knowledge_. What Steve’s hands _could_ do to Bucky; what Bucky could do to him.

Bucky grins. ‘Yeah I did. You’ve got a lot better over the years.’

‘I’ve had to practice drawing your ugly mug on valentines for enough years now, I should be getting better.’

Bucky pulls him into a quick, fond hug, then throws on his jacket and his coat.

He’s beautiful and shining at Steve, cheeks freshly scrubbed.

‘See ya Bucky.’

‘Bye Steve.’

With that, he’s gone. Steve sighs and looks around the empty apartment. He peeks behind Bucky’s curtain and there’s a box on his bed with a heart drawn on the top. Maybe that’s where he puts his (many) valentines.

Steve inhales the smell of pomade and sweat and machine grease and decides he should go out before he gets too maudlin.

He drinks a bit at the bar. He has, after all, made a bit of money over the last couple of days. Everyone’s in a good mood and he even grumpily agrees to dance with Ivan, a huge Russian sailor who picks him up off the ground, ‘ _so that you won’t tread on my feet_ ’ he says in his heavy accent. He’s a handsome guy, but Steve is a little too sad to be in the mood tonight, and it’s too cold to go out into the alley or down closer to the docks anyway.

He leaves around midnight and walks home slowly, watching his breath in the air. And of course, some drunk idiots come barrelling round a corner and run into him.

‘Hey!’ he yells, stumbling backwards.

‘Get outta the way,’ one of the guys says. ‘Look at you, scrawny little shit.’ He pushes Steve again before Steve can get grounded and he stumbles again.

Then before he can even react the guy punches him and he falls back into the wall, bashing his head painfully. The guy lands another sloppy punch and Steve kicks out viciously, hitting his shin.

‘Fuck you fairy,’ the guy spits, and then his friend is there as well, landing a blow in Steve’s side that sends hot shooting pain through his body and knocks the air out of him.

He hasn’t been well. He’s not strong at the moment. He realizes in this moment, struggling for breath, that this could be the way he dies. Beaten to death by two idiots in a frozen Brooklyn street. Not even fighting.

Then he hears shouting in Russian, maybe curses, and the two guys are being pulled off him by Ivan and an equally burly friend. They land a few efficient, heavy blows and toss the two guys to the pavement.

‘Steven,’ says Ivan, ‘you have got yourself into trouble. You should have let me walk you home.’

Steve spits blood out of his mouth and puts a hand across his ribs. Fuck, they might be broken. He’s gasping a little, but his breath has come back at least.

‘You _will_ let Dmitri and I walk you home now.’ Ivan takes Steve’s arm and lets him lean against his bulk.

Steve tries to scowl but winces instead and decides to give in.

Ivan and Dmitri walk him to his apartment block. Ivan threatens to carry him up the stairs but Steve does manage a scowl this time and they leave him with scowls and cheek kisses, which might be a Russian thing or a queer thing, Steve’s not sure.

He makes his way slowly up the stairs, breath and legs shaky, still holding his ribs.

When he finally makes it to their apartment on the seventh floor he feels woozy and disoriented. He sinks gratefully onto one of their rickety chairs, not wanting to stain his bed with the blood he can feel clotting in his hair at the back of his head. He’ll have to wash. Bind his ribs up. But not just yet.

Of course right then Bucky busts through the door smelling of whisky. The room’s still dark and Bucky stumbles around, trying and failing to be quiet.

‘I’m up, Bucky,’ Steve mumbles.

‘Fuck Steve,’ Bucky yelps. ‘Give a guy a heart attack.’

Bucky switches on the light and swears again when he sees Steve.

‘What the fuck Steve. I thought you weren’t going out!’

‘I went – to a bar.’ Steve waves his hand vaguely. ‘Ran into some idiots walking home and they laid into me. A coupla sailors pulled em off me.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘I think maybe they broke some ribs.’

‘The sailors?’ Bucky asks, pulling the other chair close and examining Steve with his calloused fingers, that always had grease under the nails no matter how hard he scrubbed with the nail brush. His brow is furrowed and his hands tremble a little. Mouth tight with something that looks a bit like fear. Steve must look pretty bad.

‘No, Bucky, the sailors saved me. They were Russian.’

‘Fucking Russian sailors, Steve. You’re lucky they didn’t–’ Bucky breaks off, pulling his hand back.

‘Fuck, Bucky, you’re really going to –’ Steve shakes his head. ‘Their names were Ivan and Dmitri, and they were very kind.’

Bucky gets up and walks over to the little burner stove, filling a saucepan with water and warming it. With practiced hands he makes a cold compress with the freezing water, and brings it over to Steve.

‘I’m sorry, Steve. I just worry, you know.’ Bucky’s voice is steady, not so slurred as Steve thought it might be.

‘How was your valentines date?’ Steve asks, pressing the compress to the back of his head, which he judges to be the largest lump. The wall had been harder than the fists.

‘I just went dancing,’ Bucky shrugs.

Steve smiles, feeling the sting of his split lip.

Bucky goes back to the sink and finds another cloth to make a second compress. He holds Steve’s face as he presses it to his jaw, keeping his hand on Steve’s right cheek. Steve can’t help but lean into Bucky’s cold hand a little.

Steve’s breath is still a little ragged. He thinks there is a strange music to his uneven gasps harmonizing with Bucky’s rapid, steady breaths. Bucky’s breath is warm on Steve’s face.

They stay like that a while, until the lid on the pot starts to clatter.

Bucky puts the compress down and goes to turn off the stove. He comes back with a blanket to put across Steve’s knees. Steve notices Bucky is just in his shirtsleeves, braces dangling down.

‘You should put a jumper on, Bucky. It’s cold in here.’

‘You can talk, punk.’ Bucky touches Steve’s coat, which he is still wearing. It’s damp from the cold night and the wet of the brick he’d been pushed into.

Bucky takes the compress from Steve and helps him take off his coat, frowning as Steve hisses with pain. Bucky removes Steve’s jacket as well and starts to unbutton his shirt.

‘Bucky,’ Steve grumbles.

‘I’m just gonna look at these ribs. Then we can get you into one of the woolen sweaters your ma knitted.’

Steve squirms and whines as Bucky’s hands pull up his undershirt and slide along his skin.

‘Breathe in for me,’ Bucky commands.

Steve takes a shaky inhale.

‘Okay, I think your lungs are alright.’

Steve snorts.

‘I mean _relatively_ , Jesus Christ.’ Steve can hear the eye roll in Bucky’s voice.

Then Bucky’s hands pull away, and Steve’s skin is a little sad. He’s used to that by now.

But Bucky is back soon with an oversized, slightly moth-eaten sweater to carefully pull over Steve’s head. Bucky’s in his own sweater, also knitted years ago by Steve’s ma, which he had grown into like he was meant to, unlike Steve.

And Bucky is smoothing a warm washcloth over his face, leaning his head back and rinsing the blood out of Steve’s hair as best he can.

‘I think I’m going to have to wrap a bandage around your head Steve. This cut’s pretty bad.’

Steve hums assent, rendered unusually pliant by the feeling of Bucky’s fingers in his hair, holding his head like it was a delicate, precious thing. Like Steve was a precious thing.

‘Do you keep all your old valentines in that box, Bucky?’ Steve asked dreamily. Bucky’s fingers paused for a moment, then continued their ministrations.

‘Only the special ones,’ Bucky replied.

‘Which are the special ones?’

‘Let me finishing cleaning you up and bandage that head, maybe bind those ribs a little, and I’ll show you.’

Steve grumbles when Bucky moves his hands, but allows Bucky to towel him dry and wrap a bandage round Steve’s head. They have a whole lot of them they made from an old sheet because, as Bucky said, with Steve around they needed a good supply. Bucky pushes up his layers of clothing again and wraps a wider cut of sheet around Steve’s ribs and pins it. It doesn’t help much with the pain, but its kind of comforting, like an embrace.

‘Let’s get you onto your bed.’ Bucky helps Steve up and leads him over to the bed. At some point Bucky’s made a little nest from all their meager pillows and arrange them so Steve can sit up. Bucky pulls the blanket up and arranges them around Steve. He’s so beautiful, Steve thinks. The line of his jaw clear and smooth and freshly shaved, his hair still pomaded, the grey knitted sweater stretched soft across his shoulders.

Bucky goes behind the curtain and rustles around. When he comes back he’s just wearing his long johns and carrying the box.

Steve stares a little. Bucky’s thighs are a marvel – full and muscular beneath the ratty fabric of his drawers, stretching the fabric out with the curve of his quadriceps. He is built for finer clothes. Or no clothes at all.

Then, oh, Bucky settles in beside Steve, pulling the blanket over both of them, wriggling close. Steve’s breath hitches, but not because of his ribs this time.

Bucky settles the box on their laps and opens the lid.

There are a lot of cards in there. Steve’s heart aches a little. He wonders if they’re all from one girl, or two. Maybe that’s why Bucky hasn’t settled down with one girl – because he’s in love with two. Or three. There _are_ a lot of cards.

Bucky pulls one out and hands it to Steve. It’s one that Steve drew – just flowers, not Bucky’s face, but he remembers doing it just today for Mary O’Hara. Mary? She’s alright. Nothing special. Except maybe for those brown curls and dewy eyes.

Bucky hands him another. Another one he drew. This time it was Bucky. A full figure of him in his Sunday best. That was for Betty Mackenzie, the protestant vicar’s daughter. She was sweet and red-haired and freckled.

‘What–’ Bucky just hands him another. It’s from last year. Another drawing from Steve, of Bucky dancing, swirling Emma Ferrero round in his arms. Steve knew when he drew it that there was too much Bucky – Bucky shone out of the picture while Emma was a shadow in his arms.

Another and another. Sometimes the same girls, but all drawn by Steve.

Bucky stayed silent while Steve looked at each card. Remembered drawing the picture that first year for Dot where Bucky was smiling holding ice-creams at Coney Island. Steve had drawn another one, for himself, of Bucky on the beach in his trunks, lounging and squinting at the sun. It was the first day Steve had noticed the warm tingling low in his gut, the stir of his cock, when he looked at Bucky’s gangly form sprawled on the sand. The version for Dot had accidentally conjured some of that energy in the jut of Bucky’s hip, the smirk on his lips.

‘That year I started keeping all the valentines you drew that people gave me,’ Bucky touches the picture with his fingertips.

‘But–’ Steve struggles for a moment. ‘But that year I – we almost–’ _We almost kissed and you pulled away from me_. _I knew you didn’t love me like that._ Steve doesn’t know how to say it.

‘I’m so sorry, Steve,’ Bucky whispers.

Steve turns to look at him. His head is lowered. He’s staring at the card in Steve’s hands. At Steve’s hands. ‘I just – I was afraid of what it meant. What I was feeling. You were so brave and–’ Bucky ghosts his fingers across Steve’s. ‘I thought, afterwards, particularly when I moved in here, that you didn’t want me like that anymore. You’d found other people who were braver. Found a life without me. Maybe some Russian sailors.’

Steve barks a laugh and Bucky’s mouth quirks.

‘So you knew? Knew I’d been going to the queer bar?’ Steve asks.

‘Yeah, I knew sometimes you’d been out while I was out. I knew sometimes you were drawing stuff you didn’t want me to see. But I – I looked anyway.’ Bucky’s fingers trail up Steve’s arm. ‘I wanted to say that I’d go with you, but I thought maybe it was – not for me. That you didn’t want me like that anymore. That it was just because I was the first boy who really saw you that you ever wanted me at all.’

Steve’s body hurts, and parts of him he’s tried to turn numb for years now have feeling flooding back into them, and that hurts too. The seat of his love which he has always located around his diaphragm, deep inside him, close to his spine, is burning with joy that is more painful, sharper, than the ache of his ribs or his head.

‘Oh no, Bucky,’ Steve says in a shaky voice. ‘No, that’s just – just fun. Just bodies. You – you’re my world Bucky.’

And Bucky looks up at him, blue-grey eyes like the ocean and the sky when they meet on the horizon and are indistinguishable.

Steve reaches out and runs a finger along his jaw, the feeling of his skin familiar and new – like now Bucky can feel the heat of Steve’s desire through his skin. Bucky Barnes, who everyone thinks they know. Always smiling, always kind. But he holds so much inside, secret to himself. Even Steve, who knows him so well, had never known he harbored this longing in his heart.

Bucky’s lips part and he leans forward. Leans in to Steve. Into the palm of his hand. Allows Steve to guide him closer with his fingertips. Until their breath is mingled warm in the cold air of the room – Bucky’s rapid, strong and Steve’s erratic, thin. 

Then their lips press together. Both chapped by the cold air, the long winter. Steve has never been kissed before this. This is the first kiss. All other kisses that went before vanish as the soft, cool press of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky’s hand settles on Steve’s cheek. Cradles him like he’s precious. He captures Steve’s bottom lip tenderly. Steve’s lips part and his tongue slips between Bucky’s teeth. And the inside of Bucky’s mouth is warm and wet and tastes like whisky and cigarettes, mixing with the metallic tang of blood from Steve’s mouth until they taste a little of each other.

Steve thinks _I could have died tonight; could have died without knowing this._ And he blesses Ivan and Dmitri.

Bucky pulls away a little and speaks husky and thick with tears. ‘I had to tell you Stevie, when I saw you sitting there. What if I lost you because you didn’t realize how much you mattered. How much you mattered to me.’

And Steve even blesses the drunk idiots and their hard fists. He leans in and presses his lips to Bucky’s again, harder, more urgently. Bucky responds to the catch of Steve’s teeth with a moan and a shudder, squeezes Steve’s shoulders. So much to learn. So many more ways to know one another.

They kiss until their bodies give out and they curl up under the blankets, shedding the woolen sweaters in favor of the heat of each others bodies.

They sleep, warm and happy, in their small apartment in Brooklyn, never dreaming the lives they will lead, how they will suffer, what joys they will feel.

Their kisses will be countless and across continents, across centuries.

And this is the first time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I have a few of these prompts coming. Kudos and comments are lovely. You, reader, are lovely.
> 
> I was so excited to write a pre war fic and I did actually do a small amount of research to convince myself people would have been exchanging Valentine's in the 30s. But only a very small amount.
> 
> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/powerfulowl2) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/stuckyflangst)


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